Brass Monkeys and me

It's too bloody cold out there. It's going to be 29 below zero (F) tonight -- 35 below with windchill (which is minus 37 C). It hurts to walk down to the bottom of the garden to write, and it hurts to walk back.

I don't think I'm going to walk the dog much tonight.

(The Noodler Polar Black ink was a disappointment, BTW -- I didn't mind the odd smell, or the tendency to spider, but I do mind ink that seems to have dried that still smudges when you rest your hand on it a couple of hours later.)

Right. Back to Chapter Seven.

Labels: cold [the extreme kind]